Page 89 of How to Fan the Flames

“That was…” He stops.

“Yes.”

“I write about things after they happen.”

“You’re used to arriving after the worst of it.”

“That’s different.”

“Yes.”

His gaze moves to the car on its side, the broken glass, the place where Brian had been trapped.

He swallows, then gives a small nod, as if taking instruction from a voice inside his own head.

I should move.

There is work to do. There are checks, reports, conversations, all the practical pieces that come after. I cannot stand at the edge of a road looking at a journalist like he has just shown me a part of himself neither of us knows how to handle.

But for one moment, I let myself see him.

Pale, shaken, careful. Standing exactly where he was needed, holding the hand of a frightened woman because someone had to, because he could, because he understoodthat words mattered most when there was nothing useful left to do with them.

Kev was right.

Useful, that one.

I hate that my heart has heard it too.

12

Chapter 11

AJ

On the last dayof my four days off, the rain is so heavy it turns the window of my room at the Rose Cottage B&B into a grey, miserable waterfall.

Not drizzle.

Not atmospheric Lake District mist.

Actual, committed rain. Rain with opinions. Rain that has looked at the hills, looked at the tourists in waterproof jackets, and decided everyone has been getting above themselves.

I am lying on the bed in my room with one knee bent, my laptop closed beside me and the television on low. Bargain Hunt is happening in the corner, though I have lost track of who is buying what and whether anyone has made a profit. A man in a bright fleece looks deeply optimistic about a ceramic jug. I respect him for that. We all need dreams.

Mine, apparently, is not thinking about Pippa for longer than four consecutive minutes.

So far, the dream remains aspirational.

The sensible thing would have been to go back to Carlisle for my days off. Sleep in my own flat. Do laundry. See Chloe and Ava. Pretend I am a normal man with a normal job and not a journalist temporarily living in a B&B two hours from home because his editor decided humiliation was best served with breakfast.

But Marie Louise said staying in Fellside would help me “absorb the rhythm of the place”, which is editor-speak for I am not paying your mileage twice a day because you upset a watch manager and now you can sit with your choices.

So I have sat.

I have walked when the rain allowed it.

I have taken notes.